Behind The Door
by AliceInkWonder
Summary: Sherlock wakes up after an eventful night. His body is almost as painful as his mind. And he doesn't know why. And if that wasn't enough, John is more distant than ever with the detective. What could have happened? Sherlock can't think straight; he wants to get up, walk, investigate, live. Yet, the nightmare that left him in that condition is more than real.
1. Note

Sherlock wakes up after an eventful night. His body is almost as painful as his mind. And he doesn't know why. And if that wasn't enough, John is more distant than ever with the detective. What could have happened?

Sherlock can't think straight; he wants to get up, walk, investigate, live. Yet, the nightmare that left him in that condition is more than real. He'll have to arm himself with courage and win back his loyal and unique friend's trust to see through this case.

This story is an English translation of "Derrière la porte", it belongs Delirarium on Wattpad . Feel free to go to her profile if you'd like to read the French and original version.

Cette histoire est une traduction anglaise de "Derrière la porte", elle appartient à Delirarium . N'hésitez pas à vous rendre sur son profil si vous souhaitez lire la version française originale.


	2. Preface

PREFACE

 **Sherlock Holmes**

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side"

When someone pronounces the name Sherlock Holmes, the first word that comes to mind is "genius". Indeed, the brown haired man was known for his nonstandard and incredible mental abilities. In a single glance, he analyses people and deduces a lot of things more or less flattering about them.

Sherlock works as a consulting detective, a profession he invented himself. As a private, he is paid by his clients to solve boring and small mysteries. However, occasionally he ends up helping Scotland Yard when inspector Lestrade and his colleagues find themselves in great difficulty. Which happens very often. Yet, in this type of cases, Sherlock doesn't ask for money, contenting himself with the thrill that a wonderful bloody murder gives him.

Sherlock is not the kind to be pleasant and friendly, he may even be despising or unbearable. Ain't that right Anderson? The list of his enemies is getting even longer considering his insensitive and (high functioning, do your research) sociopath personality.

Physically, Sherlock isn't seducing in the common sense of the term. Yet, he seems to please both men and women. Thin and tall, he has sharp-angled features and an influence as hone as his cheekbones.

 **John Watson**

"Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

John is the perfect antithesis of Sherlock. Former doctor who came back from Afghanistan after enduring an injury, the blond haired man is gentle and kind. Since the day he began living in 221B Baker Street, John takes part in the diverse investigations, offering his friend a precious external viewpoint. As they go along, he then transposes the whole cases on his blog which tend to be more and more popular.

John admires Sherlock for his intelligence. He puts up with his moods, strange experiences and his obvious lack of tact. To such an extent that lots of people think they are a couple. The blogger is outraged by these rumors, unlike Sherlock who never expresses his opinion on the subject. The doctor is a ladies' man who never remains alone for a long time. The weak spot of his relationships is his flat mate who seems to take perverse pleasure in taking up more and more space in John's life each day. However, the doctor keeps on accepting everything and remains quiet.

Physically, John isn't different than millions of Londoners. He isn't repulsive yet doesn't have an irresistible charm: he is quite common. A head shorter than Sherlock, everything seems to bring them into opposition, even their appearances. The blond man still wears a haircut close to the military ones. He isn't thin, even though he is also far from being overweight. His stature could be described as stocky.


	3. Awakening

1\. Awakening

My heart is pounding fast. My throat is dry and knotted. My head is painful. A nightmare? Probably, but it can't be just that. The feeling is real, physical. Moving a toe, turning my eyes under my eyelids is a torture. What happened?

Footsteps on the apartment's wooden floor. John. My eyelashes painfully tear away from themselves with flicking movements. The bright light burns my retina and a hoarse whine gets out of my mouth. My lips are stuck together as well. Because of something thick, something that taste like copper. Blood. Judging by the light in the room, it must be almost noon. A quick glance on my phone confirms my though. 11:42. I mentally congratulate myself. Then, I let myself fall on the mattress, already bored by this mediocre victory. It seems softer than usual. It's my bed, my sheets, my bedroom. Yet something is different. Coma. It feels like I'm waking up from coma. My body is a heap of cotton with an increased sensitivity. What happened, for God's sake?

It doesn't take long for John to appear, as I expected. I grumble softly as I'm trying to move. At this exact moment, I hate myself. A human larva, unable to move or live on its own. John carries a tray which he puts on the bed. He then sits near me, his knee against my thigh. My sharp eyes see right through him. Furrowed brows. Distinct dark rings under his eyes. Sloping mouth. Not only didn't he sleep well, but he is also mad at me.

 **"Stop it."** His tone is clear, precise, cold. **"Stop scanning me like that."**

With a skilled gesture, he grabs the sheets covering me and folds them down beneath my waist. A draft makes me shiver. He doesn't care. Pulling my pillow, he silently orders me to sit. I submit to his order, not without grumbling in pain. John doesn't pay any attention to me. The doctor, _my_ doctor, complies this morning - or noon- like an automaton. Programmed to cure. Nothing more. I'm not used to so little from him. In our boring - reassuring? - routine, I'm the one who stays silent for days; John is the one who talks to hide his embarrassment, the one who would say anything to distract my attention from him. In vain. Unusual.

My blood pounds in my temples. I hate that feeling. The noise is so loud, so internal, primitive, that the flat could explode and I would barely hear it. I'm nothing more than a secluded shadow in the darkest depths of a formerly powerful body. Pathetic.

 **"John, what..."** He doesn't let me talk. My flat mate gives me a threatening look. He wants me to shut up. By that I imply more than usual.

 **"You're an idiot."** Words sent free of any feeling. Not an ounce of compassion.

My brain is running pointlessly. I have to understand what happened yesterday, or the days that preceded _that_. The thing that made everything change dramatically, whatever it may be. Suddenly, I begin to feel fear. I'm scared of amnesia. What if my brain was empty of all these crucial information, what if I was nothing more than a normal and boring human being? My mind hurts like hell. The single fact of thinking about our living room is painful. Thinking never was so tough. If this situation were to remain even more than one hour, I wouldn't be able to handle it. I can't live without thinking. Impossible.

Soon, John hands me a pill and a cup of tea. With the same dull professionalism. I want to slap him in the face. If only I could do it. I vainly try to catch his eyes.

 **"Worst, you're a jerk"** Care to elaborate my Dear John? **"The world revolves around you; clients come from the whole country to see the** _ **great**_ **Sherlock Holmes..."** He insists on the word great with irony. His disdain is clear. **"But it's never enough. And it won't ever be."**

John's freezing fingers wander on my face. Despite his obvious anger, his movements are gentle, precise. He presses cotton on my cheek, some fibers clinging onto a scorching wound. His other hand grasps the angular contours of my face and spins it the other way round. I can't see my flat mate anymore. My friend. I'm only able to see the window. The street. The snowflakes dropping off on it. I'm rambling, the pill is starting to be effective. While I'm shifted on the other side, my eyes fix upon a black pile on the floor. Clothes. _My_ clothes.

 **"The only thing you care about is not being bored."**

While John carries on with his disapproving speech, I mentally put his voice on low. I easily recognize what I was wearing before my black out. An ordinary black suit and a purple shirt. A plum one actually. John loves that shirt. Of course, he never quite admitted it. I can see it in his look when I'm wearing it. A look which is poles apart from the one he demonstrates to sweep my wounds with his eyes.

 **"You would do anything to avoid that, won't you?"**

His examination is coming to its end. John sighs. He knows I'm not listening. Well, in fact it's quite rare for me to listen to him until the end. He puts a final plaster on my left cheek. The hot cup of tea I was holding half-heartedly and pointlessly for several minutes is removed from my hands. John lifts up my tee-shirt.

 **"Even put your friends' lives in danger."** What? What is he talking about? My eyes flicker and tear off the wooden floor to lie on his face. His messy blond hair. His drawn features. Two seconds and forty hundredths are enough for me to notice it. A small cut on John's upper lip. He took care of it as best as he could but it's still noticeable, at least for me.

As conventionally as I can, I extend a hand to his face. What he gave me -morphine or paracetamol, it doesn't make much difference- makes every single movement less painful but also a lot more uncertain and wavering. My index finger is only an inch away from the wound. Stretching my arms this way makes me wince in pain. John seems so far away, reaching him is almost impossible.

 **"Don't."** He won't allow me to touch him. But I want to. I have to. With a single touch, I would make this mark disappear from John's face. With my only will.

My pyjama top comes back down on my chest. Slowly. And it's at this moment that I notice the purplish stains. I can see them but I don't feel them. My whole person is suffering. To the point that I don't even feel the tee-shirt's fabric pressed on my skin. The only thing denoting are John's fingers, cold as Death itself. My injuries don't seem to require any more treatment. One weight leave the bed -the tray-, and then another -John. I don't want him to go away. To leave me in that state. The simple idea of being on my own, helpless, create a lump in my throat. My eyes are burning.

Soon, I find myself panicking silently. In the strict intimacy of my room. Empty. The simple idea of going through my convalescence imprisoned in my bedroom is unbearable. A predictable and boring eternity, John's few visits giving rhythm to it.

Note : English isn't my mother tongue so if some sentences feel a little too "frenchy" or odd, leave a comment and I'll correct it.

Hope you'll enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy translating it.


	4. Phone

2\. Phone

A muffled sound makes me get out of my cocoon of thoughts. John just dropped his cup of tea on the floor. Three-quarter full, judging by the sound and the amount of liquid that slipped out off the edge during the fall. Naturally, John swears. Twice. Twice before he remembers that his comatose flat mate is possibly sleeping. And another time after that. I would have given anything to see his face at this moment. The carpet under the kitchen table should have already soaked up most of the tea. And so, making the cleaning complex.

Why the kitchen? John systematically bumps on the corner of the table I moved a few centimetres from its usual position. Six months ago. A subtle combination of guilt - for not remembering the new location of this bloody table - and rage - toward me for moving it in the first place. With this in mind, a smile makes its way onto my lips. The scar crossing them had healed during my month of recovery. This demonstration of humanity had just reopened it. Great. That'll teach me to smile without any true reason...

These four weeks confined to bed had leaded me to examine every single square millimetre of my bedroom. By now, I was aware of each crack ripping the ceiling, from their origin to their point of application, the profusion of defects on the wall paper, the snags on my sheets. Nothing had slipped through my attention. Not even the dust balls that were taking shape under the furniture. It must me noted that John was cleverly avoiding my den, only venturing there once a day for the required treatment. Since the first waking, we had a mutual agreement involving a religious silence in order to avoid being hurt. Which worked pretty well until now.

My friend doesn't show it to me but it is easy to notice that his anger is fading along with my injuries. His looks are getting less stern, less sharp. But still elusive. His pride surely doesn't want me to feel forgiven. Which is clearly the case. Soon, in a couple of days according to my calculations, I'll be able to get a decent life back. John already stopped giving me morphine for some days, which is promising. I'll then be capable of talking to him without breaking our vow of silence. I'll get answers and explanations and make it up to John for them. Needless to say that such a long time frame spent alone allowed me to find plenty of interesting ideas. One of them implying a firework and Red Arrows* services. (*Aerobatic team of the Royal Air Force)

Footsteps are coming closer and then drawing away. Movement are making themselves heard in the stairs. John is about to borrow this Dear Mrs Hudson's mop. The last one we got... accidentally burned down. Not my fault. Four minutes and twelve seconds later, John is back to our floor. I can hear the fabric mopping up the liquid. The doctor breathes heavily three times in a row. Did he really never have to do this kind of stuff when his incontinent patients have an accident on the linoleum of his office? Whatever. The mental representation created by my brain is somewhat disgusting. This time, I cleverly restrain the grin forming on my mouth. I'd rather concentrate on John's scowl.

I break contact between my hands and chin to grab my phone on the bedside table. Lestrade send me two texts since the beginning of my stay in my mind palace. No matter how many times I said that the murderer had escaped through the fireplace, he wouldn't believe me. Idiot. This is the only explanation. I deliberately let go of my phone that tumble on my bedroom's wooden floor. The noise is far more louder than the one it would have made if it has fell of the table, as I would say to John, but he won't be able to tell the difference. Which is pretty obvious, though.

My stratagem is working; the hoarse sound of the rough fabric on the wood suddenly stops. For a few moments, an absolute silence reigns in 221b. No noise pollution. Nothing. I would have gladly enjoyed it if I hadn't spent the last thirty days alone in twenty square meters. 19,78 to be precise. Mycroft would certainly say that I'm "nothing more than a wilful child" but I don't care. I only like being alone when I decided to. Naturally. Life still didn't resume its course. Even the cars that usually converge in this rush hour seem to be on mute. That's enough. I want to see people.

 **"John."** Not a question: a statement, an order. Soon, the door opens on my flat mate. He doesn't say a word; he simply looks at me, waiting for my holy words. **"I've dropped my phone."**

I concentrate in order not to seem annoying. At least, not as much as I use to. I think the longing to throw myself out of the window will take me if John were to simply shut the door and leave. Too much loneliness kills a man. I should write an article about that. When John will deign to give me my computer back... However, he stays there, his head in the door frame, pupils embracing the ceiling.

 **"God knows it is a lot more kicky when I'm the one bending to grab it, isn't it?"** An almost imperceptible smile materialises at the corner of his lips. Repressed straight away. In my normal state - and if our relationship wasn't so damaged - I would probably have answered in the affirmative. But as I'm finally able to breathe without fearing that my ribs will fall apart one by one, I don't want to take risks.

 **"Well, you changed my bandages this morning so..."** Pretty effective improvisation. This time, John smiles unrestrainedly. He doesn't believe me but moves a few steps forward and gets into my bedroom. In this early evening, the streetlamps and car headlights are the only ones lighting up the room. A soothing light that make the furniture and shadows move in a poetic and elegant ballet. Not the artificial one that burns your retina and leave its trace for minutes. No. This lightning is soft, almost romantic. John makes his way to my bed. Phlegmatic. He runs away from my sharp stare, gullibly thinking that it'll be enough for him to avoid my deductions. Slowly, he picks my smartphone and hands it to me with the tips of his fingers.

 **"Thank you"** The conversation could have just stopped here but I'll do anything for my friend to stay a while longer in my company. **"Could you get me my violin?"** No response **"Please?"**

John begins to move again as I say the magic word. Sometimes, I get the unpleasant feeling that I'm living with my brother thirty years ago. Except that John complies. He leaves the room without a noise, allowing the kitchen yellowish lights to make the shimmering shadows of the street disappear. About ten seconds later, he comes back in my field of view, my favourite instrument in his hand. He holds it carefully. Almost like it was entirely made of sand and could shatter at any wrong move. Or maybe because he doesn't know how to take hold of it without detuning it. Anyway. John is meticulous. Attentive.

 **"Be careful. Don't force too much."** Error. Since then, your incriminating speech was well elaborated - perfectly balanced between silence and insults - but my Dear John, you've just committed a mistake. This last phrase shows that my state of health concerns you, that you're taking care of me and don't want to see me suffer again. Unless it meant something like _"I'm tired of playing the home-based nurse role"._ But you're too patient for that, John Watson. That's why I can ensure you with a radiant smile that, not only my lip is bleeding again, but also that I made you lower your guard. I won our little verbal fencing. Again.

John seems to realise his mistake, he smiles back before slipping away, leaving the door open. Tonight, he won't be watching TV. Officially, he'll say that none of the shows were worth watching or that he had work to catch up. However, there is no doubt that he'll be spending the evening listening to me while I play, a book in his hands.


	5. Answers

3\. Answers

 **"Could my dear brother have lost his memory?"** Mycroft is sitting in John's armchair. He walked into the room and sat down on it. Just like it has always belonged to him, just like my flat mate was nothing more than a fantasy, an imaginary friend swept away by the years. To be honest, the simple fact that he was treading upon our apartment was enough to annoy me. His intonation, his gesture reminded me of our childhood. A freezing draught goes all over my spinal column. **"Unfortunate, I admit it..."**

I don't get why people keep making connections between me and my brother. Am I that despising? My elder scrutinises me, literally throwing me a penetrating gaze. He's taking great delight in doing so. I need his help and he knows that.

 **"Shut up. I just want to know how I ended up in this... let's say no so pleasant, state."** My hands connect under my face. I close my eyes just one moment, for time to think.

 **"Why don't you ask your loyal partner?"**

 **"If you're talking about John, I'd rather not broach this subject with him"**

 **"Of course I'm talking about John, do you have others bloggers friends that follow you anywhere?"**

Grabbing my violin on my right, I slowly slide my bow on the strings. The produced sounds are out of tune. Mostly off-key and high-pitched. A nightmarish version of The Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky. Mycroft won't hold on long, he loathes off-keys notes. More than he hates ordinary people. I look at him out of the corner of my eyes, he's already gritting his teeth. Now, we're looking right at each others' eyes. A satisfied smile can be read on my face. I like seeing my brother yield. Slowly but surely. **"Well, stop that butchery, will you?"** Immediately, I stand still and drop off my weapon at its place with extreme precaution.

 **"Don't skimp on details, I have to be able to rebuild a mental copy of the scene."** Eyes closed again, I'm getting ready to store these precious data. This event is likely to have an influence on my existence for a moment, considering my injuries and the reaction of _my loyal partner_ \- what a hideous nickname, it's perfect.

 **"I only have what the witnesses willingly offered, brother mine."** Wrong. The place where this incident occurred, there had to be security cameras. There's a reason London is the most video-monitored city in the world. Mycroft would look at all of them one by one to know what I'm doing, with whom -it always implies John anyway- and at which moment.

 **"According to what I know, inspector Lestrade entrusted you with a case about a new sort of gang striking in London. The media called them the Riders. Vulgar but efficient. In reference to the... motorcycles they're using in their robberies. They're methodical, organised and clever. Yet it only took you two days to lead Scotland Yard to their quarters. There, a list of high technology military weaponry was made. Bacteriological weapons, computers that could hack into the Bank of England itself and some others more or less top-secret toys."**

 **"Congratulations, Mycroft..."** My brother's steps echo on the parquet around me. His intonation is serious, it doesn't augur well.

 **"These Riders had never used anything like that before. They were just rushing at banks and shops with their... motorised vehicle. And then leaving with the loot."**

 **"What changed? Burglars on bikes -we say bikes, Mycroft, not motorcycles - don't settle for small robberies when they have the power to make the whole country fall on its knees. That makes no sense."**

I join my brother in a standing position. I need something stronger in order to think and, even if the small amount of tea remaining won't last long, I can't risk revealing my cigarettes' hiding place to Mycroft. The kettle's sound is bothering me. It seems like it is pointing out my incompetence, my incapacity to understand. For the first time, I notice that the long whistling of this so familiar item oddly looks like the ones cumbersome machines make in hospitals when someone dies. Less continuous and high pitched maybe but the sensation is the same. This sound is bothering.

 _John..._

 **"Sherlock? Would you at least have the courtesy to listen to me? I'd like to point out to you that I had to call off three appointments to see you..."** My attention leaves the kettle and goes to my brother. With a hand, I wave to him to go on and then make my way to my perpetual black armchair. I sit, knees against my chin. The picture of John's slashed face fixed deep down in my eyes.

 **"They were certainly planning something big. A spread of disease, probably. Or a bomb attack. Maybe both. Lestrade asked you not to intervene. But, according to him and Donovan, you had a mind of your own, shouting that the longer the wait will be, the more the terrorists will have time to reorganise themselves."**

 **"And I was right..."** My voice was shakier than I expected. The catastrophic scenario was gradually spreading in my brain. Me against this gang. John by my side, as always.

 **"Indeed. Once more, dear brother, you were right."** This sentence seemed to burn his throat. It was obvious that he was enjoying seeing me at his mercy to that extent. He owned information I no longer had. However, Mycroft wouldn't grant me such an account by pure kindness. He needed my help too. Evidently.

 **"You came back to the warehouse a couple of hours after the police left. And here's the black hole... It is the most likely hypothesis that you came across the Riders in the middle of their move. They probably already had another place to stay and were transferring everything. So then they wanted to get rid of the inconvenient witness."** Mycroft stops and claps his eyes on mine. He wants to know how I gather in the information. How I am reacting.

 **"What about John? He got injured too."** His wound is minor, of course, but it is still a that occurred because of me. Hearing the tale of you own comings and goings is odious. You're watching a movie in which you starred but you don't remember anything about it. You stay still and helpless in front of your mistakes. And the solution to avoid them seems so obvious.

 **"John became aware of your disappearing in the evening. While he was making his way to the warehouse where he knew he would find you, he got in touch with Lestrade. A backup team was sent. Without them, you'd be dead Sherlock."** Saying these words, Mycroft sits in John's chair again. **"John got punched by a man the terrorist had forsaken there."**

 **"Forsaken? They abandoned one of them when he could easily reveal the entirety of their plans?"**

 **"Don't be an idiot, will you. You've figured they didn't."** Mycroft's mimicking can be terribly effeminate when he's outraged. Even more when I point it out to him. **"That poor boy was really messed up when we found him. Maybe more than you. John thinks he was the one -among some others- you had a fight with. According to John, the man punched him while he was trying to escape. Then, he tried to kill himself, biting into a cyanide pill."**

 **"Classic. And disappointing."** A long sigh slip from my partially open mouth. Two injured men, a gang on the run and no prisoners. Without considering the military weaponry released into the wild. **"No news since then I suppose"**

 **"Sadly, no. Our services are on it but they seem to have vanished."**

Those burglars with bikes possibly had a virus they could spread to the four corners of England in their possession. Twelve hours would be enough for the majority of the Europeans countries to be infected. Twenty-four extra hours and the world would bow too. Yet, this chemical weapon isn't what preoccupies me the most. If the Riders were able to leave their warehouse, they probably left London, even the Kingdom. We had their equipment within easy reach and we did nothing.

Down 221b, a car honks. The loud and powerful sound pulls me from my thoughts. I instinctively cast a glance at my watch. Mycroft is in the kitchen, helping himself with a cup of steaming tea. It is exactly 19:21. On my assessment, John should finish his last appointment around nineteen o' clock. Considering that most of the time he barely finishes before 19:10, that at this hour cabs tend to pass every two or five minutes and that the ride between the hospital and Baker Street takes ten minutes overall, John should arrive any time now. Getting into the kitchen with a fast approaching, I push my brother toward the exit with a firm pressure on his back.

 **"Thank you. You were a great help. Goodbye."**

Removing the cup from Mycroft's hands, I loudly close the door. Finally on my own! Not for long though. However, John's presence doesn't bother me. On occasion -quite often, let's admit it - he tends to annoy me, bore me or sometimes both at the same time. Yet, I'm unable to be mad at him for more than one hour or two. John isn't the brightest but he is a trustworthy friend. The kind to follow you in whatever suicidal mission you'd be involved in. I know something about this.


	6. Routine

4\. Routine

John arrived only a few minutes after Mycroft's taxi had left the street. Perfect timing. I don't know yet how I'm going to justify my recovered memory to my flat mate. A dream maybe, a flash. Or a long and advanced stay in my mind palace. Even though until now it didn't come to anything. Surely John won't see the clumsy strings, as usual, but I would rather take a little time before announcing the news.

 **"Sherlock, I'm back."** By way of answer, I snort distractedly. Facing the window, I'm watching the rain as it falls. And letting the threat to linger. My relationship with John slightly improved since the warehouse incident and my first waking. The unknown, the fans, the passers-by must say to themselves that everything is fine, that these two men strolling together in London's streets are close friends that nothing could bring into opposition. They're wrong. They're always wrong. John talks to me, smiles at me sometimes, but he is elsewhere.

Something in him remained in the warehouse more than a month ago. His expressions changed. They're not really cold, just... nondescript. His eyes don't shine when I solve a case in a few seconds, they aren't filled with wonder because of my deductions, not anymore. I don't mind about the journalists', clients' or the whole world's opinions. They all can think I'm brilliant or, on the contrary, stupid, I couldn't care less. However, John doesn't have the right to act as if what I do is normal. John is the one who finds the least of my words "astounding", and draws up an inventory of most of them on his blog by the way. The one whose opinion counts.

John is my only friend, the unique human being on Hearth that likes me for who I am. Not a week goes by without him getting angry about something I've said, done or haven't done. He puts up with my nocturnal violin plays, my boredom crisis and my experiences. He doesn't understand me and probably never will and yet he's still there. I can't bear this gulf between us and my head keeps telling me that as long as these Riders will threaten the country, it won't be able to reduce.

A melancholic sigh lets air out of my lungs. **"Had a good day?"** John turns around, hesitating. He must be asking himself if he's really the one I'm talking to. So I feign a smile. Not a fake and shining one. The simple and sincere kind. John slightly shakes his head and answers positively.

As we're eating a microwave-heat-up plate, silence reigns in the flat. The tick-tock of the clock, the computers' purring, all these everyday-life noises seem to be increased. I'm seeking a subject to broach in order to get through this discomfort but John outruns me. Luckily for the both of us.

 **"Greg called me today noon. He wanted to know if you were in condition to go back to work. I told him that you were."**

 **"Greg?"** Johns stops his fork full of sparsely appetizing peas midway between his plate and mouth. Then, he makes a face between a frown and a rise of his eyebrows.

 **"Gregory Lestrade. The only one apart from me that gives credit to what you say. Does it come back to you now?"** The tone he gives to this sentence is light, friendly. I settle for a half smile as an answer. I was dead certain Lestrade's name was Graham though. Or Gary.

 **"I consider that I am in state, indeed. But what does my doctor think about it?"** I thought I would set a poser to John, calling out to him like that. However, he's the one who surprises me with a nearly immediate answer.

 **"If it was up to him, your doctor would forbid you any case riskier than a cat escape or adultery."**

 **"It's luck it's not only up to him then."** John lets out a laugh. Frank this time, free of all awkwardness. This familiar sound warms up my body almost as efficiently as a chimney fire. For a few moments, the words _Riders_ , _bombing_ and _guilt_ leave my mind.

 **"Hey Freak. May I know where you think you're going?"** Donovan gets out of an office on my right and gets into position behind me. The idea to just ignore her crosses my mind but I decide not to choose the easy solution. In a coat movement - that I know is charismatic - I turn around and face her. Around us, the employees swarm to the extent that we're almost invisible in this crowd.

 **"I have to see G-Gr..."** I think I'll never make it right. Gary? Graham? After all, it doesn't matter. **"Lestrade. I have to see Lestrade."** Donovan pleasantly points out that an appointment is necessary if I'm hoping to see inspector Lestrade. Wanting to play it authoritarian, she shows me three decaying plastic chairs almost three meters away from the office door of the much-vaunted Inspector. Unable to solve a case on his own, mentioned in passing. Judging by the raised voices escaping from his office, the man seems to be in one of his bad days. Good for me, that'll only make this victory even sweeter.

Old newspapers and magazines take centre stage on a mediocre-quality table. I randomly take one, just to put up a front. Hiding behind this dog-eared rag, I observe the mixed-race woman as she boasts in front of Anderson. She shots me quick looks. She exults to see me comply like this.

Quite odd for a woman who tends to be among the submissive side, in her professional life as much as in her private life. Especially in the private one, by the way. I can see the bruises and strangulation traces decorating her neck very clearly from where I am. I'd probably have been invited if this was related to an assertive case. So it's the kind of unofficial parties no one really talks about but where a lot more people that we could think, relying on the outraged looks on the world's faces when the letters S&M are associated side by side, participate. I'll take delight in pointing out this detail to her, once she'll deign to let me see... Gregory Lestrade!

As the door opens onto the hall, I can see very distinctly these two names, all in all quite classic, that I can't remember. Maybe because of a loss of interest, let's admit it.

 **"You can count on me to sort this case out Andrews. Donovan, you're in charge of the paperwork."**

A radiant smile appears on my lips. I'm delighted by the turn of events. As my eyes scrutinise the peculiar mixing of shame and disappointment on Donovan's features, my attention drifts on the second man getting out of the office. Andrews. A small man, podgy, forty-or-so, sedentary way of life. A failure among millions of others. What could have he done? Donovan guides him toward another office in the shared area of the third floor. Lestrade comes near me, arms crossed.

 **"Rape."** One word, just four small letters that say so much. This pathetic office worker could satisfy his sexual drives with any of the pornographic films overflowing on the internet. Or spend some of his precious pounds with a woman who agrees more or less because it's her job. Yet no. Andrews' salacious eyes are those of a hunter. Those of a man who doesn't content himself with ease. Andrews wants to track, hunt and execute. Even if the jury members won't spare this pig, he'll keep it going when released. Unavoidable.

 **"Why is he still here? You wouldn't have called me for so little."** I suppress a smile. If John were here, he would have been indignant, pleading that "so little" isn't the suitable expression. But it is. In the United-Kingdom, 13 395 rapes are committed in a year, namely 37 each day. 36.69 to be precise. With the seventh rank in the rating of the states where rape is the more frequent, this despicable act is no rare thing in the tea country.

 **"Andrews has an alibi. The watertight kind. He was with your brother when the events occurred. And if this wasn't enough, the victim is French."**

So it's the French criminal court that rules the case then - plenty to please Lestrade. In virtue of the clause 113-7 of the French penal code, if I remember well. And in fact, I do. Always. And as far as Mycroft is concerned, I still can figure out how my brother could possibly, closely or remotely, hobnob with a man like Andrews. All it takes is to take a look at his cheap skimpy suit, stained in several places and mended many times over. Mycroft could never allow this kind of get-up in his field of view.

 **"Did you check it out with Mycroft?"**

 **"To be honest, I was hoping you could handle it. It's not that I'm not very fond of your brother but..."** Lestrade goes back into his office, carefully shutting the door behind me. Through the glass walls, I can see Andrews' satisfied smile.

 **"Don't tire yourself, no one has a real fondness for Mycroft. Except for our mother perhaps."** My humour attempt seems to warm up the room a little. Lestrade is far too sentimental for a cop. Emotions and feelings are to ban if we want to keep our minds clear. I've been insisting on saying it for a while now...

 **"Here is the file. Maëva Girard, 23 years old, was in London for a week-end."**

The girl's name pronunciation is almost exaggerated. Gregory - no merit, the golden warrant card on the desk is impossible to miss - probably has no idea how to pronounce these dieresis right. And saying it as fast as possible doesn't fix things. I correct the victim's name, out of respect for her.

 **"According to her, she saw Andrews for the first and last time last Tuesday, in Coven Garden. In front of the** _ **Royal Opera House**_ **. He was smocking, she asked for his lighter. And it ended up in the back alley."** The account, despite being brief, holds water. Maëva is a French girl with an accent as melodious as her cleavage. Something totempt our predator.

 **"And his own version?"**

 **"Never saw the girl. He claims that he was with Mycroft** _ **in**_ **the opera until one o' clock in the morning. Remain to see if your brother confirms."**

 **"He won't."** I close the file that spreads out the facts with great precision. I walk out of the room, reassuring Lestrade about the already assured outcome of the case.


	7. Restaurant

5\. Restaurant

It had been more than a week since I'd last meet Lestrade. We had both agreed that there was no emergency to solve the case. I had done some research about the penal code ruling the Hexagon, overjoyed to discover within the texts a solution that allowed me to put an end to Andrews' victorious and self- satisfied smiles. According to the article 143 and following ones of the French procedural penal code, detention pending trial can be enforced in crime or infraction circumstances, punished by more than three years of imprisonment for these ones.

As everyone knows - at least I hope so... - France, contrary to the United-Kingdom and to the English justice in general, divides her infringements into three categories: minor offence, infractions and crimes. Breaches classified depending on seriousness and so, the gravity of the penalty incurred. This system seems clever if we stop to the theory. However, in practice, this tripartite classification doesn't make sense. Am I the only one who thinks that it is appalling to define an offense by its penalty severity? The purpose isn't to discuss our neighbours' justice but still...

Since the French penal code defines rape as a crime in its article 222-23, detention was imposed to Andrews. This little stay, soon definitive, would permit to leave our little hunter facing the prison environment. And enable him to learn that being on the victim's side of rape isn't a fulfilling sexual experience. Although, personally, I never had to experiment with the thing... Who knows, maybe it could turn out to be... surprising. I'll ask Donovan one of these days.

Even though, officially, Andrews' case is still classified as "ongoing" in Scotland Yard's cardboard boxes, I took me less than one hour to dismantle this little bugger's alibi. One visit in the _Diogenes Club_ was enough to solve this puzzle.

 **"Even if you have trouble understanding it, brother mine, when I come here, it's in order to be left in peace. Not to be bothered endlessly."** Mycroft pushes the door of the comfortable office his co-founder status in this club offers him.

 **"Oh please. You have a huge mansion and a life without friends for that..."** My brother doesn't rise to my comment. What a shame. Taking place behind the impressive wooden desk, he scrutinises me with his sharp gaze, hands linked at the level of his mouth. Does he continuously copy me on purpose or is it genetics that lacks inspiration? **"Seriously, what interests do you find in reading the newspaper here, surrounded by so-called octogenarian** _ **gentlemen**_ **-who are, at bottom, nothing more than a bunch of goldfish just like the others? When you could simply..."**

 **"Sherlock. The facts, please."** Mycroft's words are almost flung in my face. Obviously, I'm bothering. At least more than usually. I decide to go over my eldest's bad mood and sigh before beginning to reel off my extended speech about Andrews, sliding the file on the desk.

Mycroft informs me that he wasn't with Andrews the night of the rape. How surprising... Actually, he was, but not exactly as he deigned to told us. Andrews is in fact Mycroft's chauffeur - hence his more than questionable suit and flabby backside. As planned, he dropped him off in front of the _Royal Opera House_ ,however he didn't enter the building after parking the car. But he could have: in there, there is a sort of waiting room dedicated to those who, too poor or unread, are just waiting patiently.

So, Andrews disappeared from all radar during a large part of the play. At least that's what we thought before my brother inspected the cameras covering Coven Garden's area. On one these, we could clearly catch sight of our suspect getting a smaller silhouette under control - with great difficulty, just saying... - and then guiding it out of the camera's sight.

Case closed, then. But somewhat disappointing. Admittedly, Andrews didn't suspect that his employer was my brother, but he surely knew my name. Given that Lestrade constantly beg for my help, it would be very easy to disprove his alibi. Truth would have been exposed, one day or another.

So, Andrews now rots in preventive detention for almost ten days. To be honest, I stopped counting. Lestrade has all the data he needs at his disposal, it's his job to take care of all the paperwork now. I don't know why but I'm thinking about the victim as my bow gently takes a stroll on my violin and my fingers pluck its strings. I'm doing my best to distance myself from all kind of feelings likely to slow me down - namely more or less all of them - but, as John keeps repeating, I'm only human. And thinking that I can push my limbic system* on standby is pure utopia.

(*Part of the brain considered to be responsible for emotions and feelings.)

I already had the occasion to observe my senses go into panic several times. To feel my neurons activating one by one, making fear, pain or sorrow rush into my organism. Most of these experiences involved John on the verge of death. However another one, far older, relates to the death of Redbeard and how, in an instant, a little boy who already feels lonely as if he's the only one in the world falls into complete isolation.

With this thought, my arms stand still, as if they were paralysed. I lock up the memory of my childhood dog where it always should have stayed and set down my violin on its base. The echoes of the second movement of the _Concertante Symphony for violin, viola and orchestra in E flat major_ by Mozart slowly fade away in the flat.

 **"That was beautiful, I really like it."** My heart skips a beat. Wasn't John supposed to go out with his actual girlfriend tonight? I turn around, not letting anything appear, and face my flatmate with his elbows propped on the glass kitchen door.

 **"Mozart."** John seems to appreciate classical music. Rare are the times he doesn't pay me compliments when I'm playing. Yet he is unable to recognize most of the pieces. The _Concertante Symphony_ , or _Sinfonia Concertante_ in Italian, is part of the major work of Mozart, and Mozart one of the greats in general. **"Since when did you come back?"**

No need to ask, if truth be told. The half-empty cup of tea set on the table behind him and the fact that he took the time to remove his coat soon give me the answer, but I want him to say it. Between his part-time job in the hospital and my investigations, the time we spend within those walls lowers each day.

About three months ago, John was asking himself if this job, purely to put food on the table, was really worth it. Our increasing renown handed us more clients that we could see on a silver platter. And I think he'll agree to say that inspecting a crime scene is far more joyous than prescribing pills all day long. I had ended up being delighted with the idea of seeing my flatmate, _my friend_ , following me in all of my cases. His life would have been endangered even more than it already was but I would have protected him. Isn't it what I'm the best at?

 **"A small quarter of an hour. You seemed focused..."**

The hem John's lips make as he smiles makes me smile too. Whatever may be the reason. John begins to move again and disappears from my sight a few seconds. When he comes back, he is holding his cup of tea. In a quite feminine and British manner.

 **"I always am. Had a good night?"**

 **"Hum, well, yes."**

I sit in my black armchair while John raises the liquid, probably lukewarm, to his lips.

 **"Not really, no."**

 **"I beg your pardon?"**

John looks like he's outraged but is in fact intrigued. He always tends to exaggerate. He's wondering how I'm capable of knowing that, what details in his appearance or his behaviour makes me deduce it. And that's exactly why he casts a glance at his jumper. I love seeing him lost. Trying to understand the trick, the _eternal trick_ that enables me to see everything people want to hide from me. In vain, of course.

 **"You left the flat at precisely 20:15 to be certain that you'll arrive at the restaurant at 20:30. Which proves that you're involved. On the other hand, your clothes suggest the exact opposite. Simple beige pullover, just like the ones you wear every day. I know I'm not well situated to give lessons but it isn't really... romantic, is it?"**

 **"Sherlock..."**

 **"You went to your favourite restaurant, the one you always go to. What causes you to know the menu by heart and explains why you're no longer taking pleasure in eating there. You'd like to change. She doesn't want to. So you keep inviting her to this restaurant every Saturday. She doesn't like change, she doesn't like to go out. The more the weeks go by, the shorter your dinners are. Less time wasted thumbing through the menu, which means less time passed looking straight into each other's eyes without saying anything. I think that..."**

 **"Sherlock, I broke up with Beth."**

I slowly uncross my hands, restraining my cold and sharp gaze. One by one, I review the emotions a human being can go through after a break-up. Regret? Sadness? Bitterness? Joy? No, it's not that. This glimmer in John's eyes doesn't match with any of these. Relief ! It's relief. The feeling that you've just freed yourself from a burden. That you put an end to something that you knew wasn't viable.

We stayed there for a moment, staring at each other in silence. John finally began to laugh, he also happy about this news.


	8. Theft

6\. Theft

My eyes violently open wide. As I'm slowly regaining consciousness of my body and the space surrounding me, I hear noises through my bedroom door.

For God's sake, this dream was trying. Dreams always appeared terribly useless and harmful to me. Now more than ever. Either these hallucinations of your subconscious take control of your worst fears in a mixture of terror and incomprehension, or they're nothing but joy and happiness, making the waking gloomy and dull. In the present case, I had just experienced a perfect union of both of these.

I stretch out at the bottom of my bed, staring at the crack on the ceiling in the late morning light. It feels good under the bed sheets. I'm suddenly reminding myself of a child who, suffocating under his duvet, believes he can escape the cupboard's bloodthirsty monsters. Whatever.

In my dream, I was discussing a case with John from the living room. He, in the kitchen, was answering with a light tone. He seemed captivated. It was nothing more than a scrap from our everyday life. A scrap that I wouldn't change for anything. However the atmosphere became radically heavier when my flatmate appeared.

A few inches taller. Brown hair. Grey suit. Irish accent. Morbid smile.

My eyes shut mechanically, I don't want to live this moment again. John was John. He was responding to his name, carrying on with our conversation. But he had another one's appearance. The one who haunts my Mind Palace since the damned pool's incident. Strolling around the rooms, from one floor to another, spreading the virus in the machine's heart.

Jim Moriarty.

I jump from my bed and gently land on the floor.

 **"H'llo, Mrs Hudson"** With a perfectly controlled move of my dressing gown, I lay down on the sofa, fingers interlaced.

 **"Listen boy, I'm willing to make you some tea or cookies but I'm not your housekeeper. It's not my role to do the washing-up."**

The washing-up? So that's the thing John does once a week, hands plunged into the kitchen sink full of water? Interesting.

 **"I'm allergic to detergent."** It's an excuse I've been using ever since I was fifteen and that still seems to work perfectly well. For purpose of masculine pride, at first John wanted to set up a fair sharing of the tasks. My Dear Watson, you ought to know me better... I have excuses for everything. All the time. Concerning the washing up, John gave up on the idea to make me clean up the slightest plate a month after we moved in. Even though he knows perfectly well that this allergy doesn't exist, along with my childhood trauma linked to vacuum cleaners.

 **"Where is John ?"**

 **"At the hospital Sherlock, just like every morning."**

I was about to noisily complain about this data when I heard footsteps coming from the staircase. Man. Tall. Muscular. Determined. Not a threat. No one makes so much noise if he intends to commit a murder or a misdeed. Even if it was in vain, he would try to be discreet. I yell at the stranger to come in. He seems surprised, he doesn't move anymore. After a moment, he turns the handle and gets into the flat. I then discover a henchman beribboned in a fitted black suit.

 **"Your brother sent for you, Mister Holmes. Right Now."** Of course, there is no question of protesting. Mycroft loves coming here to make fun of the tidying and splutter in every corner. If he doesn't, he must be busy. My brother's minion moves a few steps on the side and hands me my coat. **"This is urgent."** I think I'd get that, yes.

And here I am, in the street in my dressing gown. What a lovely day!

Down the apartment block, my carriage, the traditional black Jaguar, is waiting for me. I take my place on its board, quickly followed by the stranger with his suit. I have never seen him in my brother's army. On my left, Anthea gives me a faint smile by way of hello. Polite, no more. For a reason that is, in my opinion, both unknown and uninteresting, Mycroft's assistant never granted me any sympathy. Likewise for John who always seems disappointed to see his mediocre seduction techniques remain unsuccessful.

The car stands still in front of Mycroft's huge property. Before getting out, I offer Anthea a brief look. She doesn't take her eyes off her phone but distractedly says **"Office, second floor."** Thank you.

 **"The HPA, does that remind you of something?"** Mycroft stands with his back to me, looking through the window, hands behind his back.

 **"HPA,** _ **Health Protection Agency**_ **. Founded in 2004, winded up in 2013. Previously based in London and Salisbury. Is it in order to do a sort of quiz that you made me cross half of the city?"**

Mycroft inhales lengthily. As if he had been holding his breath since the end of his sentence. He leaves his observatory and lays his eyes on me. His look strangely goes back and forth along my clothing. **"For God's sake, Sherlock, could it be possible for you to be wearing something appropriate for once?"**

 **"And you, could you stop sending your bodyguards to kidnap me just like you do it with John for your secret meetings?"**

My brother's right eyebrow braces itself. By common consent, established with a head sign that claimed to be virile, we decide to keep it down. **"John never conceals anything from me"**

 **"Anyway."** Mycroft tries to hide his embarrassment, readjusting his suit. **"As it is planned by the procedure on suspicion of attack with chemical weapon, all the laboratories of the country that manipulated, directly or indirectly, any kind of pathogenic sources in the last five years have to communicate us the exact inventory of the equipment in their possession."**

 **"Which pathogenic stem cells?"** Second eyebrowheightening. **"You talked about HPA, which pathogen was stolen from them?"**

 **"From what the report says, smallpox and Ebola."**

At brisk pace, I visualise the press cuttings about HPA's dissolution. When a P4 rank laboratory, and so housing extremely dangerous pathogens, shuts down, its whole contents are urgently transferred toward one or several other institutes which are capable of welcoming and handling such equipments.

In the case of the HPA, where was sent the freight? And why hadn't this theft been noticed before? One by one, I go over the pieces of my mental hard drive with a fine-tooth comb. Meanwhile, Mycroft waits patiently, sitting on his desk chair. I can feel it, he's looking at me. It's annoying.

At the very same moment I'm about to shout out my irritation, my phone buzzes from my coat pocket.

 **"Please, Sherlock, answer. We have** _ **all**_ **the time in the world."**

Irony doesn't suit you, Mycroft, really. Considering the importance of the message in question, I wasn't planning to answer it now. John pertinently knows that the response is positive. But you should know that contradicting you is one of my favourite activities.

 _I just got back. Mrs Hudson tells me that you forced her to clean up the dishes._

 _Mrs Hudson thinks that "reality television" isn't an oxymoron. Do you really want to trust her?_

 _SH_

 _Wait. You are unaware of the fact that the Earth revolves around the Sun but you know what an oxymoron is?_

 _Shut up._

 _SH_

 _After all, we must learn this kind of things in secondary school. These are more recent memories. But it's still astonishing that you kept hold of them..._

 _SHUT UP!_

 _SH_

Putting my phone away, I take possession of the file entitled HPA. Lestrade has to look this up as soon as possible. Even though Mycroft's men are probably already busying themselves on this theft, maybe the one hundred and forty IQ point of Scotland Yard could be helpful. Although it would be the first time...

Before I get out of his office, Mycroft forbid me to divulge any information about the HPA or the Riders. To anyone except for the reduced team of Scotland Yard entitled to handle this kind of case and him. I know Mycroft by heart, if he points out such an obvious fact it is for a good reason. He wants to be sure John won't know anything.

Contrary to the reasons that could have urged me to hide such information from him, it isn't to protect John that Mycroft insists on keeping him away from action. He doesn't trust him. Not for such a mission. That's where he underestimates him.

John was a military man - a doctor, admittedly, but still a soldier- he knows what orders are. Furthermore, his knowledge on the subject would have made the task easier. Given the capacities of these soon-to-be terrorists, they aren't training restaurateurs.

Keeping John away from what will be my life in the next few weeks weigh on me. I'm walking toward our apartment. It's longer than taking a cab but I need to think. Plus, the fresh air appeases me. Less than nicotine, though.

John doesn't leave my thoughts. It is this kind of lies that led me on the verge of death and also at the brink of John's silence, which is way more terrifying. Given that I'm always one step ahead of him -sometimes even six or seven- it is unlikely that he will discover anything. At least in the next few days. In a longer future however, I'm in the dark.

And I can't stay like this. Without being able to know, forecast or anticipate. It's my strength, what makes me almost untouchable. Take off my deduction capacity and John's friendship and I'm nothing more than a man. A simple mortal that anything could make tip over.

It's in this state of mind that I finally reach the foot of 221B. In the late afternoon, the temperature is already about to go down again. Under my thin pyjama, my body would shiver if it had the strength to.

I get into the living room where a woman in tears is sitting. I sigh half-heartedly, an umpteenth adultery case. John keeps repeating that I'm too harsh, saying to these women that infidelity is in men's from the highly socio-economic class very nature. More money, more responsibilities, more pretty women with virtues as short as their skirts. Simple calculation.

John isn't in the room. I take advantage of this fact to hide the file among a pile of some other papers. Meanwhile, our client laments in a far too worn out tissue. When my flatmate comes back, he shots me a death stare. Not only the second cup obviously isn't for me, but I'll also have to be polite and fake being interested in a case I will refuse no matter what.


	9. Inquiry

7\. Inquiry

Standing on my double bed, I'm observing. Images pass before my eyes under my shut eyelids, probabilities, scenarios. A stock of data I can't manage to analyse properly. A month. I've been on this case for a month and nothing. Not a single thing. No news of the Riders or the pathogens, which is quite reassuring but also surprising. Mycroft's secret services are stuck and concerning Scotland Yard... it would be better not to talk about it.

We're in half-February now. Days are getting warmer feebly but lastingly. As of now, the thermometer will only ascend -save for an unpredicted climate imbalance- people are going to take off a layer, go out again and won't worry about winter illness anymore. Add some bacterial strains of Ebola or Smallpox to this cocktail -or a mix of both of these NB: talk to Mycroft about the possibility of a mutation- and a wonderful apocalyptic story begins.

According to my research on the subject and to my brother's report, I was able to gather some precious information. The Ebola virus was discovered in 1976 by a Belgian microbiologist -a small country near France where the accent is very little pleasant to hear. Without Google's help, he had to take the old encyclopaedias out of their cupboard. Encyclopaedias in which a similarity was found with the Marburg virus, another filovirus. Yet the Center for Disease Control of Atlanta rejected this hypothesis, the pathogen was new. Fascinating for a microbiologist, isn't it? Discovering a class 4 virus with a fatality rate from 25% to 90% among humans. Really fascinating. Even these days, the virus cycle remains uncertain. The most probable theory would be that the bats from West-Africa, as healthy carrier, contaminated monkeys that, in turn, contaminated humans. That's what happens when you eat bush meat... Concerning the worldwide spreading, our modern society does what's necessary.

The Smallpox virus, this disease that ravaged the whole Europe, was eradicated in 1977after an OMS campaign. Last case in Somalia. The P4 laboratories were the only ones to keep bacterial strains of it for experimental purpose. This time, no animal reserve. Everything passes between humans. Saliva, breath, even clothes or bedding form the ill person is sufficient to spread the virus. A preventive vaccine had allowed stopping the epidemic. However, what would prevent the bio terrorists form making the virus mutate? Or combining it with the Ebola pathogen?

My bed base creaks with every breath I take. It is impossible to concentrate. I jump off the bed and take a look at my makeshift deduction board from further distance. The pale tapestry doesn't sufficiently bring out the few papers pinned on the wall. It makes the reading difficult; this is not optimised at all. And I don't even talk about the fact that I have to climb onto my bed to hope to distinguish the slightest word.

I hate Mycroft for pushing me into doing this. Thinking into my room, cloistered, while I could totally be doing this in John's company. Thinking into my room, just like when I was a _teenager_.

Don't think about that, it takes up too much useless space in your brain.

I finally resolve to reach the living room, John will end up finding this isolation in the daytime suspicious.

" **Ah, there you are. Pick one.** " John hands me his laptop before sitting back on his armchair. The page displayed is from his blog. Dozens of messages from potential clients are heaping-up. No, John, I don't have time for this. I have to focus on..." **It feels like forever since we've had a case. More than a month, it seems to me. I still can't figure out how you didn't flip out..."**

Look at that. John Watson, the brilliant military doctor with a really-very-simple and boring life begs me to find him a case. It's no use lying, John, I saw right through you. Again. This inquiry isn't for me or my mental health, it is for _you_. Your little and insignificant life as a part-time doctor got you addicted to adrenaline and risk. If you didn't like these dangerous hunts for the dragon at least as much as I do, you'd have simply wait for me to steal your gun from you in order to add some holes to this day.

I smile naively. I'd love to do you this favour, John. However I'm afraid this is not possible. A terrorist attack with unprecedented scale could happen one day or the next. Each second is precious.

" **I was joking, Sherlock, relax. You're acting weird all of a sudden.** " I shake my head briefly. Despite the emergency, I don't have a choice. If I refuse to investigate, John will suspect something. If he suspects something, he'll search. And so, he'll find.

" **Just let me cast a glance. One of these boring wailings may deserve a bit of my time...** "

I'm not looking at him but, at this precise moment, I know John is smiling. All the while looking at the ceiling. He always does that when I point out the world's dependence to my assistance. I find this funny face... cute. Anyway. The messages are all as fawning as the next. I need a case with a complex appearance but that won't need more than a few days of thinking. I hate Mycroft for pushing me to do this.

After skimming five or six letters -I may be obliging but I have my limits- one seems to stand out from the crowd. A young woman in her thirties, banker, single and staid, suspects herself to have a sort of schizophrenia. Interesting. She claims she does crazy things that she can't remember next. Just like someone was taking control of her body. Of course, it can't be that, but John will like it. " **The possessed schizophrenic?** "

" **Excuse me?** " John bluntly turns over, frowning. If he had taken a few seconds to think before speaking, he would have figured it out -he isn't stupid, far from it. But John is like most of the ordinary people, he acts before thinking.

" **For the case.** ** _The possessed_** ** _schizophrenic_** **, you readers keen on seedy stories will certainly like it.** "

" **Meh. A bit... gee whiz.** " John takes hold of the computer I give him. I see his pupils moving back and forth along the lines of the text.

" **Gee Whiz?!** "

Is this an insult? I don't see how it is a bad thing to be a little _gee whiz_. People love these kinds of stories. The more blood there is in the cases John transcribes on his blog, the more people read it. So how is this something bad?!

" **Don't make this face, you're theatrical that's all. So is Mycroft if it can reassure you..."** His eyes keep moving on the screen. " **But I like the case** "

" **Reassure me? Looking like Mycroft? How is it suppose to reassure me?! Who would want that?** " John partially opens his mouth. He's about to say something but changes his mind. Closes his mouth. Opens it. And talks.

" **I just... said it like that.** " John closes the laptop and goes in direction of the kitchen. " **So, do we take the case? The possessed schizophrenic** **one.** "

" **I thought you found this name** ** _gee whiz_** **.** "

I hear this noise of the kettle and the one of a cup that we put on a table.

" **It is, for sure.** **But if you like it, then it sounds good to me.** "

I don't know what to answer to this so I keep quiet. John is the one who choose the name he gives to our inquiry. Always. He has that way writers have to wrap up his sentences in metaphors and literary structures. It's the first time that an article's title comes from me. From my purely rational and scientific brain. No one will know that, of course, but I will. If I didn't leave my mark on John's life, at least I would have done it with his blog. And I kind of like this idea.

When John comes back with two burning cups, the sound of my violin welcomes him. The Violin concerto in A minor by Jean-Baptiste Accolay. John puts my cup on the pedestal table and sits down in his chair. He stays here practically a quarter of an hour. Without saying a word. Just to listen to me play while drinking his tea.

These kinds of moments seem to be out of time. The night is slowly falling on the town, giving London its peculiar charm. I like playing in front of John because he doesn't know anything about it. He doesn't criticize this or that composer, this or that symphony. He just sits and listens. Appreciates the performance that takes place before his eyes. And that, not much people can do.


End file.
